Blank Roses
by CrAyOnS tAstE LIkE pUrple
Summary: Fires like the breath of a dragon consumed him. Tear-flooded and fever-scorched, quaking and bloodied with nightmares...warning Drug use, dark themes...If you don't like don't read.


Whoo F.L.B!!!  
  
Yes yes I know I'm starting another one...my muse can't seem to shut up lately...  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter...or Rose+Beast  
  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Music pumped through his body. Smoke laced his hair. His brilliant green eyes closed as he grinded with a random stranger. He felt ungainly, tripping on his feet as if to escape his body---cumbersome.  
  
As the summer progressed, his eyes became slits and he chewed on his lips until they bled. They still thought him beautiful though. The hungry boys and girls. He was an ice king, covered in crushed velvet, a porn god.  
  
Alone, isolated, awkward, crazy. His jacket smelled like smoke and the grass he had been lying in. Looking to the stars. Depressed angst-ridden. He didn't have the words  
  
You could discover alot of things about this boy if you looked in his pocket. A pack of cigarettes, grains of sand, pepperment gum, and his wand. You would learn how he worried about cancer, but couldn't stop smoking. How he would lay on the beach, wishing the tide would take him away. How he was waiting for that special someone. And how he wanted to always be prepared.  
  
Sweat was itching his temple, and the neon lights were hot. The strangers hands were gliding up his spine. It was hot, a hundred people crammed, moving, writhing in a room only ment for 60.  
  
Fires like the breath of a dragon consumed him. Tear-flooded and fever scorched, quaking and bloodied with nightmares.  
  
His back arched as the stranger licked his neck. Was he dancing with a boy od a girl? He didn't even know anymore. He sneaked out his window every night, coming back at dawn, high. He listened to music at nightclubs where actors had OD'd on the sidewalk.  
  
You have opium eyes,' a boy had once told him. You're beautiful', he had said in awe.  
  
Was the curse he was born to be beautiful? Had it caused his family to hate him? To see such striking beauty in a boy that young?  
  
Let the drugs be your soul. It was better than having a soul. It did not burn in pain, and it most definitely did not cry out.  
  
His inky hair tossed into his eyes. the boy infront of him ( Yes it was a boy) was looking at his face. Was he trying to drink his essence?  
  
How old are you? his voice was husky, it reminded him of tobacco.   
he breathed truthfully. The boy had a tongue ring. It flashed metallically in the lights. He smelled like hibiscus, leaves and tequilla.  
  
Sometimes the boys and girls asked him to come home with them. He always left afterrwards. He would sit with the roses and talk to them, and carve words with a razor blade on his palms.  
  
Do you want to come home with me? the hibiscus man asked. Harry shook his head No'. The boy looked sort of angry. He said he was going to get a drink and he'd be right back.  
  
He didn't come back.  
  
He still writhed to the rhythm. Moving his fingers and swaying his hips. Did they know what he did? Were there people still assinged to follow him?  
  
Hot. It was hot. A trickle of sweat ran down his back, he felt it under his shirt. He was sure his lovers saw the bruises and cuts he had. He was so tired when he got back up to his room. He couldn't get up, and his uncle would beat him. He didn't mind it that much. That was the fucked up part.  
  
He felt hungry eyes upon him. He always did. Why was he beautiful? Was it because he was so small? Pale? Doll-like?  
  
It was about 2 o'clock in the morning when he stumbled out of the club. It was much cooler outside, and he felt the air hit with a dry breeze.  
  
The world was a haze of bright colours and stories just waiting to be told. He couldn't get the mint ash taste of cigarettes out of his mouth.  
  
Wasn't it his birthday yesterday?  
  
He walked almost steadily to number 4 Privet Drive. His black clothing contrasted with the happy colours.  
  
The air was stale. Like dust and old grass. Could your location suck out your humanity?  
  
He reached the house, steading himself against the wall. The garden looking like those 3-D posters. the night was blue, like drowning in a cocktail.  
  
He was small, only 100 something pounds. Partally from the lack of food, partially from all the beating, and partally the dancing, thrashing.  
  
He climbed up the criss-cross stripes of wood holding the vines in place, his steeled-toed boots seeming to loud for his ears. He heaved himself over the window frame. Stumbling over to the bed, his boots coming off somewhere in between. He licked the salt of dried sweat off his upper lip.  
  
He heard Hedwig hoot doefully from somewhere to the left. His head throbbed with a non-existing tempo. What did he take? His eyelids were heavy. The bruised veins in his arms sang a song. A Fuck for a Buck.  
  
It wasn't like the Dursleys' gave him money. Play to win. Lady luck was a bitch. Bloody nightmares plagued him. Circles under his eyes looked like he cried with mascara on.  
  
The sunshine in his blood beat his ears with every pulse. He felt like he had been kissed all over his body for hours.  
  
His eyes drifted shut, sheilding the green plants within. He imagined blueberry pancakes and jasmine rice.  
  
Amazing how minds can chage and mold in such a small amount of time, like clay.  
  
He felt his dry burning glass stung eyes. Eyes like moons, head crowned with the city of a thousand stars.  
  
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The sun was glittering through his still open window. Stuck to his sheets, he peeled them off his body like cooling wax.  
  
His heartbeat had slowed, fuzzy images of stars and moons blurred on the edge of his vision. He sat on his floor, the wood familar to him no. He grabbed a cigarette from the pack in his jacket, placing it between his lips and striking a match. He cupped the flame. Protecting it.  
  
The tendrils of gray smoke drifted up towards the ceiling. He was just a blurb of golden light.  
  
He heard his door unlock and there stood his uncle, looking at him like someone would a slug.  
  
Bloody junkie! Put that damn thing out.  
  
Harry continued to observe, flicking some ash on the floor. It happened quickly. His uncle flew at him, and the wind was knocked out of his chest. He tried to remember some fairy tales.  
  
A meaty hand took the cigarette out of his lips. He swallowed as it was pressed onto his chest. The smell of slightly burnt flesh and flash of pain made him feel dizzy and drunk.  
  
After his uncle got a few good hits in, Harry lay on the floor. Blood tasted on his lips. His ribs creaked like the sound someone makes when they're in a rocking chair.  
  
The dorrbell rang, Harry crawled to the loose floorboard. There were raised voices downstairs but Harry payed no attention. He just stared at the needle. It was something poisonous, delicious, forbidden. All the pain in the world. Not pain to make you feel for someone else but pain to make you stop feeling.  
  
The metal did look odd sticking out of his bruised vein like that, but it didn't really hurt anymore.  
  
He didn't hear tje footsteps on the stairs, of the raised voices.   
  
His mentors, and friends came bursting in.  
  
And he was sitting crosslegged on the floor shooting up.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
SoOOOOOooo! How was that! I want your feedback if I should continue or not! It's up to you! Review!  
  
M-ann


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